Gravity
by YellowDancer
Summary: Gravity is inescapable. Altair and Malik have always been rivals, but their competition drew them together as much as it divided them. Even when the only thing they had in common was hatred, they couldn't escape each other's orbit.


**Author's Note: This story is set immediately after Altair assassinates Majd Addin. I've taken a few liberties with what happened, though I did lift some of the dialogue directly from the scene in the Jerusalem Bureau. My inspiration came partially from the fact that I find it odd that there was no mention of poison in the game and poison and assassins often go hand in hand--though in this case it's the assassin who gets poisoned. I say that, but really it was just a cheap way for me to work in a bit more interaction between Altair and Malik. ;)**

**The story also includes two glimpses into Altair's and Malik's youth. They are not meant to occur directly after one another. I see them happening years apart, but I think they add something to the other scenes.**

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Malik toppled backwards, landing in the dirt with a grunt and a cloud of dust. Watching with a small smile, Altair impatiently swung his blade through the air in a flourish and waited for Malik to scramble back to his feet. Jeers mingled with shouts of encouragement as Malik wiped blood from his lip and raised his sword defiantly.

"Again!" the weapons master shouted.

Altair launched into motion, mildly disappointed when Malik sidestepped his attack with easy grace. Their swords met a moment later, the blades grinding against each other with a metallic whine that set Altair's teeth on edge. Twisting away before Malik could wrench his sword out of his grasp, Altair did not pause before swinging back around with a vicious slice that left the bottom seam of Malik's tunic hanging like a crooked smile.

Eyes narrowing with hatred, Malik lunged forward, bombarding Altair with a series of quick attacks before cutting beneath his guard and knocking his sword away. Forcing him back a step so that Altair's heels were touching the edge of the ring, Malik pressed his blade against Altair's neck. "Yield," he hissed, nostrils flaring.

Altair felt sweat trickling down his back, but he refused to give up yet. Weaponless, he resorted to his bare hands, gripping Malik's wrist and twisting it cruelly. The sword clattered to the ground and Altair slammed his forearm beneath Malik's chin to prevent him from diving after it. Malik teetered off balance as his head flew back and Altair assured his descent with a kick at his chest. Again Malik landed in the dust, but this time Altair followed him, pinning him down against the gravel and pressing an elbow menacingly against his adam's apple.

"Enough!"

The novices cheered and Altair grinned darkly, easing the pressure on Malik's throat, but hesitating before letting him up. The weapons master paired them together frequently in practice, but only rarely did one of them manage to claim a complete victory. Altair had won their last three fights though, and he was beginning to think that Malik was not as much of a challenge as he used to be.

"Get off of me," Malik ordered fiercely.

Still smiling, Altair held him down a moment longer, enjoying the fire in the older boy's eyes. Technically, Malik was only a few months Altair's elder, but he was fond of using that thread of leverage whenever an opportunity presented itself. Today, age was not an advantage. Victory could speak for itself. Rolling off of him slowly, Altair watched with satisfaction as Malik rubbed at his throat.

"That's enough practice for today," The weapon's master announced. "Altair," he added, clapping him on the shoulder, "Very good. You are improving by leaps and bounds. One day soon, I will have to start pairing you with apprentices to prevent you from killing your sparring partners."

"Thank you, master," Altair replied with barely suppressed pride, glancing over his shoulder to see his rival's reaction.

To his disappointment, Malik's expression was pensive rather than jealous. Looking passively at a hand that had come away from his clothing with blood, Malik remarked, "Perhaps if Altair were less careless, he would be capable of sparring with any partner without drawing blood."

Laughing, the weapon's master nodded, "An excellent point, Malik, and well taken. This is weapon's practice, Altair, not war. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but control is important as well."

Altair glared at Malik's back, anger flaring inside of him. Malik's ability to twist every situation to his advantage with a few choice words was maddening.

"Now, go get cleaned up for dinner," the weapon's master said with another slap on Altair's shoulder, but he was no longer listening.

* * *

Altair crashed through a fruit stand, the pounding beat of his pulse only slightly less deafening than the alarm bells ringing in his ears. A blur of horrified faces swam past as he shoved his way through the crowd and darted down an alley. Racing toward the ladder at the opposite end, he clumsily dodged a shrieking leper and was forced to pause against the wall for a moment while red spots danced across his vision.

Altair forced his leaden legs into motion as the leper's unintelligible cries were joined by the shouts of his pursuers. Catching the ladder mid-leap, he pulled himself up the rungs in a series of tortured hops, his right arm screaming with pain as he hauled himself onto the roof. He took off at a run as soon as he was able to stand. He longed to catch his breath in a roof garden, but he feared that he wouldn't be able to drag himself to his feet again if he stopped to rest, even if the guards did manage to miss him hiding there.

"There he is! Get him!"

Altair nearly misjudged two jumps in a row, his depth perception failing as his vision blurred. Taking what cover he could find between sprints across open spaces, he ducked behind towers and ledges to break the line of sight, but the guard's cries grew closer with every step. Boots clattered against the roof tiles behind him as he made a third faulty leap and caught an awning on his way down.

He dropped to the street below and decided to give up the high ground for the moment. Ignoring the unanimous gasp of the crowd, he weaved through the gawking citizens and dashed into a small, shaded courtyard. Collapsing on a bench inside, he tried to swallow his broken gasps for air, lungs burning as he clutched his arm and listened to the city guard run past. He didn't move again until their shouts had faded away into the distance. Blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision, Altair staggered to his feet as if drunk, vaguely aware of the man who had been sharing the bench studying him with suspicion.

He barely made it to the roof again, and the short journey to the Bureau was agonizingly slow. His landing inside was clumsy, and he was grateful for the pillows that broke his fall. Nearly too weary to crawl to his feet again, Altair wished that this botched escape had occurred anywhere but in Jerusalem. He could not afford to appear weak in front of Malik.

Altair waited for his eyes to adjust when he stepped into the dusty interior, the quiet scrape of pen against parchment dim and distant to his ringing ears. "Jerusalem needs a new ruler," he announced, surprised by the gritty texture of his voice. He tried not to clutch at the edge of the counter too obviously as he fumbled with the pouch at his belt, attempting to retrieve the marker with fingers that were numb with exhaustion.

"So I have heard," Malik replied as if bored.

Altair frowned at the unusually civil response. After the frustration of his clumsy flight, he could have used the distraction of Malik's caustic insults. "What's this?" he demanded. "No words of wisdom for me? Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion." Altair's hand trembled as he placed the bloody feather on the counter and he struggled with the uneasy sensation that the surface was rising to meet him before realizing that he had swayed on his feet.

Malik did not look up, but he did not need to meet Altair's eyes in order to throw venomous words like poisoned darts. "You performed as an assassin should. No more, no less. That you expect praise for merely fulfilling your duty, however, troubles me."

"It seems everything I do troubles you," Altair muttered, that familiar ache rising in his chest as he acknowledged the unbridgeable chasm between them.

"Reflect on that," Malik replied, lips twisting in a bitter smile as he set his pen aside and smoothed the parchment. "But do so on your way back to Masayaf. Your job here is..." Malik's eyes widened and his hand hovered over the feather as if forgotten. "Altair. Your face is whiter than your cloak."

"Perhaps my cloak could use a washing," Altair said dismissively. He immediately regretted shrugging when the room lurched sideways abruptly.

Some time later, he was sprawled on the floor, head aching where it had collided with the counter. Malik was beside him, fingers searching various bloody patches on his clothing. The touches were distant, faint sensations floating on a haze of pain. "Where are you injured?" Malik asked impassively.

"Right...arm," Altair managed to say past unfeeling lips. He tried to shift his arm, but the limb failed to respond.

Malik hissed, touching a finger lightly to his tongue after examining the wound. "You arrogant fool. Why didn't you tell me you had been poisoned?"

"Poison?" Altair echoed, trying to remember the meaning of the word. Thoughts were becoming difficult to retain and he had to fight to even focus his eyes.

Malik shook his head, clearly disgusted by his idiocy. "Get up," he ordered, pulling fiercely on Altair's shoulder. "Unfortunately, I can't do this without you—a situation for which you have only yourself to blame, I might add."

Darkness fell across Altair's vision like a sheet as soon as he tried to move, but the sting of a slap startled him awake a moment later. Malik's livid glare was only a hair's breadth away when he opened his eyes. "Pass out again and I will wake you with my boot."

Too groggy to reply, Altair focused instead on pulling himself to his feet. He felt strangely removed from his body, as if he were controlling his limbs with strings like a puppeteer. Malik was tugging at his belt, trying to loosen it with only one hand, and Altair realized what Malik had needed his help to do. His fingers were nearly as useless as he fumbled with the fastenings of his cloak, but Malik helped to shove the clothing away with rough jabs of his fingers. He was too numb to feel much pain, even when Malik's fingernails scraped cruelly over the cuts on his shoulder.

Malik guided him toward the fountain in the outer room and Altair leaned against him heavily, oddly aware of how slight Malik was--nearly insubstantial beneath his layers of clothing. Altair was hesitant to label him as fragile, though; Malik did not waver beneath Altair's weight and his grip was strong around Altair's waist as he lowered them to the basin, as if he could make up for his wiry frame with sheer determination. Malik was no longer what he once had been, but Altair did not doubt that Malik was stronger in some ways than he could ever hope to be.

Ripping the sleeve of Altair's undershirt away, Malik began dousing the wound with icy sloughs of water. Altair shivered, cowering against the wall as Malik leaned over his arm and began sucking poison from the gash. Slivers of light danced across Altair's mottled vision as he watched Malik, entranced by the way the muscles of his throat worked beneath his skin. Blood landed on the paving stones with a wet slap and Altair closed his eyes, trying to remember how he had gotten to the Bureau and what he had been doing before his arrival. Majd Addin. The chase. His recent memories slipped away like bubbles on the surface of water, bursting the moment he caught them.

When he became aware again, his wound was bound in white cloth and Malik was pressing a vial against his lips. "Drink. The poison is already in your blood," Malik explained briefly. "This should counteract its influence."

Altair attempted to swallow the noxious substance, but his mouth rebelled against him. Syrupy liquid slid down his chin and Malik cursed.

"Tilt your head back, damn you," Malik ordered, but Altair's control over his body was less than substantial.

Sighing, Malik regarded the vial with a resigned expression before pouring the contents into his own mouth. Relieved that Malik had decided to take the disgusting draught himself, Altair did not immediately register what Malik intended to do. A moment later, Malik's hand was clenched in Altair's hair and arching his head back painfully. Gasping in surprise, Altair didn't have time to struggle before Malik's mouth was sealed over his own and the nauseating substance was rolling down his throat.

Malik did not pull away, daring Altair to defy him as he waited for him to swallow. They were close enough for Altair to be uncomfortable with the proximity, but he found himself noticing things about Malik that he had never seen before. Like the scar across his nose. And the golden flecks in his eyes that made his eyes glow with an unearthly light when he was angry. And there was no doubt that he was angry now. Altair could feel his anger like a tremor along his body, like heat rolling off of him in furious waves.

Altair swallowed painfully, grimacing as nausea immediately crawled over him. Finally releasing his grip on the nape of Altair's neck, Malik sat back on his heels and waited with an expectant expression while Altair coughed.

"Are you waiting for me to die?" Altair gasped when he had caught his breath.

"If only I were so lucky."

Drowsiness was quickly replacing the nausea and Altair felt his eyelids descending with an inevitable weight. "Don't give up hope yet," he murmured, surrendering reluctantly to the tug of sleep. He couldn't be certain, but as he drifted off he thought he felt Malik's fingers against his forehead, smoothing his damp hair in a gentle caress.

* * *

The library was quiet at this time of night—far quieter than the chamber he shared with his brother's snores—and Malik often retreated among the bookshelves while his brother slept, seeking solace in the dusty tomes. He found himself there more often of late, attempting to escape from his daily frustrations. His frustrations had a name—and a face—and were growing more intolerable with every passing day, but at night he could forget them for a time and bury himself in knowledge of the past.

Boots scraped softly against the floor and he froze in the act of turning a page, his blood pressure instantly rising. Looking up, he scanned the shelves for the intruder, expecting to see Altair's smug face long before the tall boy stepped into the candle light. Why the source of his frustration had chosen to follow him here—the one safe haven he still had from the ingrate—he had difficulty even fathoming.

"Studying for your next trial already, Malik?" Altair leaned back against a shelf with a haughty twist to his lips.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Malik returned his attention to the book. "I thought you were afraid of books, Altair. Is your need to constantly prove yourself superior to me so great that you would seek me out even here?"

"I'm not afraid of anything. Certainly not books."

Raising an eyebrow, Malik countered, "Your scores on the last trial indicate otherwise."

Altair's eyes glinted with danger. "What good is a book against a man with a knife? My blade does not need to say a word in order to fulfill its duty."

At times Altair's obtuseness truly defied belief. Snapping his book shut, Malik regarded Altair in amazement. "Your blade would never even get near your target without careful planning bringing it there. We are taught the hunt in addition to the kill, but you seem to think that your victims will simply throw themselves in your path."

"It does not take a scholar to find a target in a crowd of victims."

Malik sighed. "Why am I arguing with you? I'd get more intellectual stimulation from debating with a rock."

"Say what you want about me." Altair's lips curved with the insidiousness of a viper. "Al-Mualim has judged me ready to take the next rank."

Malik considered this revelation in shocked silence, wondering what on earth the master could have been thinking. A skilled fighter he might be, but Altair lacked the emotional maturity required to negotiate a hunt. How would he possibly complete a mission without relying on others to lay the groundwork for him every step of the way? Altair cared only for the thrill of the chase and the pleasure of victory. Malik doubted that he would he be able to discern a trap before it was sprung beneath him--or find a target who was skilled at hiding. But, Al-Mualim must have had his reasons, and Malik was in no position to question his wisdom.

"So, that's why you're here," Malik mused, pushing his envy aside. Tossing his book on a nearby table, he rose casually to his feet, a carefully constructed smile spreading across his face. "I suppose I should feel complimented that my reactions are so valuable to you." Tilting his head, he took a step toward Altair. "But I already have a younger brother. I don't need another."

He barely registered Altair's movement before he felt the rough wood of a nearby bookcase biting into his back. "I'm not here for your approval," Altair growled in his face, angular features sharpening with ire.

Malik couldn't repress a laugh, a flush of anticipation washing over him as he felt Altair's fists tighten in his tunic. "No. Not for approval. You're here to gloat like some child with a piece of candy. But I don't need a pat on the head from the master to know that I am better than you, no matter my rank."

Gray eyes boiling with rage, Altair slammed him against another bookcase, the impact sending volumes tumbling to the ground. Malik could feel Altair's breath gusting hot against his face and he smiled, watching Altair's anger burn a little hotter.

"Every time you lose your temper," Malik whispered, "_every time_ you allow me provoke you, you lose."

Altair swung a fist toward Malik's jaw. "I haven't lost yet."

Malik diverted Altair's blow with a snap of his wrist, kicking at Altair's shins as he ducked beneath another swing. Using Altair's momentum against him, Malik shoved him against the table, knocking the lamp onto the floor in the process. Thankfully, the impact blew out the flame before it could set the library ablaze.

Blinded by the darkness, Malik pinned Altair against the table with all of his strength. "For once in your life, Altair, think," Malik hissed into his ear. "The master has honored you with advancement because he knows that this is the only way to keep your attention. You have talent. No one is denying that. But you lack discipline. Someday that lack will prove your undoing. The master is willing to take that risk only because it is better to make use of a candle that burns out quickly than to save it until the wax spoils and it refuses to burn."

Still trembling with emotion, Malik released Altair abruptly. He didn't know if his theory about Al-Mualim's motivations was true, but the possible explanation did little to comfort him regardless. He and his brother had come to Masayaf long before Altair had stepped foot on the mountain, and the thought of this hotheaded fool overtaking him stung no matter how much he tried to justify the situation.

Malik could dimly make out Altair's shape in the darkness as he straightened. He tensed as Altair turned, fully expecting another attack. When Altair instead caught his jaw in a fierce grip and pressed their lips together, Malik was too stunned to react. At first he thought that it must have been a mistake, but when Altair's lips moved against his, teeth biting lightly, Malik knew that it had been entirely intentional. Still too shocked to stop him, Malik opened his mouth obediently and even moaned when Altair's hand slid around his back to pull them closer.

Breaking the kiss with a shuddering breath, Altair murmured against his lips, "If you're so concerned about my ability to take care of myself, then you should catch up to me quickly. Otherwise you might just get left behind."

Altair was gone before Malik could find a response, leaving him cold and confused in the dark library which had so recently been his sanctuary.

* * *

Malik looked up at the stars, gazing through the metal bars that shielded the Bureau from the violence of the city. A book lay open on his lap, utterly forgotten as he watched the brilliant points of light move ever so slowly in their circuit across the heavens. The city was quiet tonight in a way that it rarely managed to be in Altair's presence. Even Altair himself was silent now, still as death as his fever faded. Malik had never seen him so weak. He should have been pleased, but to his surprise the circumstance did nothing to improve his mood.

Altair stirred quietly in his sleep, rolling onto his side and mumbling soft apologies against the carpet. Malik winced. Awake, Altair had never displayed a single hint of regret for all the thoughtless things he had done, but in his sleep, plagued by fever and phantasms, he had cried out Malik's name—and Kadar's—pleading ceaselessly for forgiveness.

Sighing, Malik rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw a young boy drenched by the rain, bleeding from a dozen injuries and thirsty for revenge. Malik had never learned what events had led Altair to Masayaf all those years ago, but he had never really been eager to know the cause of Altair's brazen sense of purpose; understanding the cause might have given him a reason to excuse Altair's failings, and Malik had never been interested in forgiving him anything. Especially after what had happened. After Kadar had died.

Malik rubbed absently at his shoulder and the misshapen place where his left arm should have been. He had lost so much to Altair's arrogance, but even he could see that Al-Mualim's plan to rehabilitate his pet assassin was working. Altair had changed drastically over the last few months. He was learning to control his temper, and he was thinking--actually considering a situation before he jumped to conclusions. Malik hadn't thought him capable of such restraint. Chuckling bitterly, he shook his head. If only Altair had learned these lessons before the brotherhood had paid the price for his foolishness.

The sun would be rising soon. Malik could hear birds chattering as light pressed impatiently against the dying night sky. An eagle alighted on the edge of the roof above, preening for a moment before it noticed Malik watching. Golden eyes regarded him with suspicion, beak snapping spitefully before it spread wings again and beat its way into the air.

_I was an eagle once_, Malik thought sadly, _but my wings are clipped now. _Looking down at Altair, he considered his rival with a thoughtful gaze. Altair had always fit the part more gracefully than Malik. Even grounded, Altair was an eagle--proud and bold in every word and gesture. _Yet gravity has its hold even on you, doesn't it?_

The rhythm of Altair's breathing changed subtly as he watched, but Malik wasn't certain Altair was awake until he whispered in a rough-hewn voice, "I'm alive."

"So it would seem," Malik agreed.

A wry smile tugged at Altair's lips as he looked up from beneath a shadowy fringe of hair. "Better luck next time."

"The day my luck improves, you'll be the first to know."

Altair nodded, his expression grave. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself slowly into a sitting position and reached for his cloak, trying to hide his grimace of pain as he tugged the white robe around his shoulders.

"How are you feeling?" Malik asked with mock sweetness.

"Why ask a question when the answer is obvious?" Altair countered, resting back against the wall with a sigh of relief.

"Because I love to hear you admit weakness."

Meeting his eyes with thinly veiled malice, Altair said, "Then I feel great."

"That's good to hear. I can't have ungrateful tenants laying about my Bureau all day." Standing up and brushing himself off, Malik smiled thinly. "I have work to do."

"Malik."

The desperation in Altair's voice made him pause. Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss Altair's regret as a symptom of his fever. Looking back, Malik watched Altair brace himself to stand up, his hand splayed against the wall as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Thank you," Altair said when he saw that Malik was listening. "I won't trouble you any longer."

Malik opened his mouth to respond, but said nothing, merely watching Altair as he crawled up the wall unsteadily and stood at the edge like a wounded bird with one arm tucked against his side. He was gone in a flutter of white cloth.

"Come back in one piece," Malik murmured finally, knowing that Altair couldn't hear him.

* * *

**Author's note: This is my first foray into Assassin's Creed, so I hope I managed to capture the characters with some accuracy, though I did add a bit of romance into the mix. I'm very curious to know what you thought, though. It seems I took a different tactic than many of the writers around here, but I really don't see Malik and Altair ever being best friends. They're too competitive. Still, I like the idea of Altair's reasons for being such an asshole being tied to his interest in Malik. He just wants the one man who never gives him credit to recognize how awesome he is. ;) Thanks for reading! **


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